A Conversation With the Secret Service
Was I being investigated as a threat to the president—or as a potential hire for a sinister job?
By Ian Svenonius
I have a suspicion that the current president might be assassinated. How do I know? I was interviewed for it.
About a year and a half ago, I took a call from people who identified themselves as the Secret Service. They expressed an urgent desire to see me, which in their highly considered psycho-babble, was made to sound like a choiceless inevitability.
On the demand for an explanation, the agent, a woman, told me that they had intercepted an email which seemed to implicate me in a plot to harm the POTUS: that is, the President Of The United States.
I immediately surmised that her concern was related to a mass mailing I’d written in beat-prose to attract attendees to a night of record playing at a local club, called “Spilt Milk.” Thinking that my audience would enjoy the same amusements as myself, I had perhaps contained some reference to a dispatched leader of the free world.
The Secret Service’s responsibility was to check out every instance of a threat, no matter how far-fetched.
“We need you to come down to the office. It’s extremely important,” the woman insisted.
To get the initial sale, through, they used a female agent, knowing via a psychological assessment based on telephone and computer surveillance, that this would seem less threatening to me. Like a talented telemarketer, she was gentle but firmly coercive. In fact, the two professions are related, as the FBI and CIA’s inquisition techniques are lifted straight from Nelson Rockefeller’s bible for salesmen, How to Win Friends and Influence People, and feature the exact same mind control tricks. Of course, telemarketers don’t have the weight of state security at their disposal.
“I can’t come down, I’m really busy,” I told her, though my inbred instinct was to obey.
“We’ll come to your house, then,” she insisted, another offer I evaded.
After much back and forth, I agreed to meet “them,” the Secret Service agents, at a French bistro not far from my house. It seemed less likely that they’d kill or abduct me in a public setting.
Before I left my home, I alerted a few people as to the nature of my rendezvous and they agreed to witness the interrogation from afar, unannounced.
When I arrived, the officers were sitting in the outside cafe section under a sun umbrella which said “CHIMAY.” One was the woman I had spoken with on the telephone and she was accompanied by a man in a lowslung baseball cap with some rugged facial growth.
They looked drab and angry, respectively.
As the woman agent clasped the evidence and sat businesslike, her partner assumed the “bad cop” persona, searching me like a berserker and then scowling fiercely through the duration of the meeting. The implication was clear; if he were let off his chain, he would make quick work of me for god and country.
The purpose of this choreographed psycho-ballet is of course to draw the detainee into the maternal arms of the good cop so as to escape the paternal bad cop figure’s wrath. This psy-op cliche was immediately transparent, but it still worked; psychological reflex is at least as dependable as the blood-and-guts kind.
Meanwhile, my own spy witnesses had taken their anonymous positions, taking snapshots innocuously in case I were later dangled from a helicopter by these freak thugs.
When the waiter came by, I ordered a latte.
The mama character drew the offending email from a folder dramatically, like it was a bad report card. She read it aloud, slowly and haltingly as if translating from hieroglyphs.
“Dear Spilt Milk…”
The email flyer was written like a Dear Abby column, with the advice giver having the name of the nightclub. I explained this to the concerned agents who didn’t seem satisfied.
The mama kept reading:
“My partner and I recently had sex change operations to better understand the respective gender’s perspective. It was a very enlightening experience. To better understand the plight of the aged, I’ve been attending sessions at a tanning salon and to better empathize with endangered wildlife, I’ve been listening to a Richard and Mimi Farina LP.”
The agents pretended to be utterly literal and scanned me for signs of bursting hormones and imported genitalia.
I explained that I actually hadn’t had a sex change but that this was meant as a fantastical scenario in the life of a mythical do-gooder.
Again, the berserker daddy looked like he was herniating.
The reading continued.
“Now I’d like to experience psychological derangement; to stand in the virtual shoes of a person who is a would be gunmen, bent on murdering the president. Any suggestions? Signed, Empathy Tourist”
They looked at me, bewildered and shocked, in a sublime pantomime of a 17th-century Puritan couple. As if the culture weren’t littered with so much obscenity and simulated bloodshed; as if these presidential fondlers weren’t de facto collaboraters with some of the greatest mass murderers in history.
Still, the act was perfect; their collective civic virginity had been punctured by these rapacious words.They were awestruck by my audacity.
She continued, though the strain was evident:
“Dear Empathy Tourist,
My dear do gooder, you need look no further than Spilt Milk: each and every dancing lothario there is an aspiring revolutionary whose singular desire is to slaughter the president!”
The address followed but she didn’t read it.
Who was the Empathy Tourist?
Who is Spilt Milk?
Was this nightclub a gathering of would be assassins?
Would I like to kill the president?
A thousand “are you a lone nut” questions followed from a prepared questionaire, which followed the cultural conceit that there is no ideology, only insane people, that to desire the assassination of the president (a person so fine and benign) one would have to simply be a crazoid mentalist.
Responding to their assumed persona of lobotomized dunderhead, I played the part of apolitic entrepeneur, a man whose sole desire was to see asses in seats.
Before this absurd charade was concluded, I declared officially that I didn’t mean to incite club goers to kill the POTUS.
Of course, like the various running dog lackeys who were tapping my phone and reading my mail, they already knew this. The interview was bogus but it wasn’t merely bean counting. In fact, it was maybe something far more sinister.
The whole experience was demeaning like a job interview for some corporation like Urban Outfitters.
And perhaps it was a job interview; there is a good chance that I was being screened as a possible patsy in the RITUAL BLOOD SACRIFICE OF THE FIRSTBORN GEORGE W. BUSH BY HIS FATHER, GEORGE H. W. BUSH, the arch-satanist who has controlled the country for thirty years. Just as Kennedy was ritualistically murdered in Dallas by his inner circle in a magick invocation of a new age, maybe W. will be killed as an offering to moloch or whatever hungry diety demands satisfaction.
Think about it. He has been bred for this role.
The pathos of George W. is evident when one sees him speak. After the initial disgust one feels at his stupidity, arrogance and mass murdering, one is seized with pity at his plight. It’s a simple matter to see that he is merely a husk of a man, a mind controlled puppet; the sad, lame, brain-gone pawn of the various blood sucking high priests of the inner order.
His sobriety and “born again” conversion were really just a cover for an MK-ULTRA mind control program to which W, as a wayward lout, prone to suggestion, was the perfect “candidate”.
Just as Hinckley was H. W. ’s robot slave, a “friend” of the Bush family, designed to kill Reagan and therefore annoint the elder for the top spot, George W. is another mental muppet, a bizarre construct who must be cast into the flames to realize the elder’s pledge to his illuminated brethren to usher in the final stage of Novus Ordo Seclorum, “the New World Order.” While mass murder of Iraqis, Afghanis and Colombians is an appreciable offering, the firstborn is traditionally the “whopper” of sacrifice.
I was certainly just one of several patsies interviewed for the hapless job of taking the fall. After my encounter, the agents hurried down to the club in question and harassed management there in an attempt to gauge public perception of me. They have very specific requirements, after all.
Not anyone will do.
Like Oswald, James Earl Ray, Sirhan and Hinkley, this new “Lone Nut” will be found with journals of scribbled free verse as evidence of his lunacy…
If you enjoyed this story or even if you didn't (which I doubt) you should go and get Ian's incredible book "The Psychic Soviet"
I loved it!